We drive past, that open air filling our lungs.
With every exhale comes an inhale,
bigger than the last one.
I feel calm here, though the music is up loud.
Our singing isn't perfect, and the music,
oh, the music is never loud enough.

It was never like this where I'm from.
Strangers looked around to make sure others weren’t doing the same—
scared of laughter,
ever assuming it was aimed at them.

I'm here now.

Now I don't need to know what they're thinking.
I never stop to wonder if they're playing
judge from their seat.
We're driving back, high harmonies burning our throats.
With every exhale comes an inhale,
more vital after each note.

(Written 11.6.17)

Reagan Fleming